My first experience with real estate began when I relocated to another state. Like most first-time buyers, I entered the process armed with enthusiasm, a checkbook, and absolutely no clue what I was doing. Real estate felt like a secret society where everyone knew the rules except me. This was before Zillow, Redfin, and every other website decided we should all become amateur real estate analysts overnight, so your agent was the keeper of all sacred knowledge.
My agent met with me a couple of times, emailed me listings that emerged from what I assumed was an ancient algorithm powered by fax machines and coffee, and showed up to home tours carrying a stack of printed property sheets like they were classified government documents. After months of searching, second-guessing, and convincing myself every house was either “the one” or “absolutely not,” I finally found my future home.
As the transaction moved along, I noticed something curious: I understood almost none of it. Questions were met with reassuring phrases like, “That’s just how it works,” which, as it turns out, is remarkably effective at ending conversations while explaining absolutely nothing. There was no roadmap, no education, no discussion of my options—just a steady stream of signatures and an unspoken expectation that I should nod confidently and pretend I understood why I was signing page forty-three.
Eventually, closing day arrived. I received the keys, officially became a homeowner, and eagerly drove to my new property to begin this exciting chapter of my life.
Instead, I discovered that the previous owners had apparently interpreted “personal property” to include…the landscaping.
The trees? Gone.
The shrubs? Missing.
The flower beds? Empty.
In their place was a yard that looked less like a welcoming home and more like an archaeological dig sponsored by a backhoe.
As a lifelong plant enthusiast, I was devastated. As a new homeowner, I was confused. Was this…normal?
I called my agent, convinced there had to be some mistake. The response was essentially, “Well…there’s nothing we can do.”
Nothing.
Apparently, I’d unknowingly purchased a home with a complimentary collection of holes.
Years later, I enrolled in real estate school to earn a license. On the very first day, we covered fructus naturales—the legal principle that established trees, shrubs, landscaping, and other growing plants generally convey with the property.
I distinctly remember thinking, “…Excuse me?”
You mean to tell me there were actually rules? Rules that someone could have explained? Rules that might have prompted a simple conversation before closing? Rules that perhaps could have prevented my landscaping from disappearing into someone else’s new yard?
I also learned about the importance of a final walk-through before closing—another fascinating concept that had somehow never made its way into my home-buying experience.
Maybe the outcome would have been different. Maybe it wouldn’t have. But I wouldn’t have walked into homeownership feeling like I’d accidentally skipped the first eight chapters of the instruction manual.
Ironically, that experience shaped the kind of real estate professional I wanted to become. Today, I don’t believe my job is to impress clients with industry jargon or shepherd them from contract to closing while hoping they don’t ask too many questions. My job is to educate, communicate, and advocate. I want my clients to understand not just what is happening, but why it’s happening, what options they have, and how to avoid surprises that can turn an exciting process into a frustrating one.
Buying or selling a home is one of the biggest financial and emotional decisions most people will ever make. It deserves more than “that’s just how it’s done.”
It deserves an agent who explains the process, protects your interests, answers your questions before you know to ask them, and makes sure the only thing missing after closing is the moving truck—not the landscaping.
